Nor Think The Bitterness Of Absence Sour
by Robottko
Summary: *Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour* After the fall, John can do nothing but survive. Sherlock, meanwhile, is busy tracking down the three gunmen. When Sebastian Moran is nowhere to be found, he returns to watch over the good doctor. Everything crumbles, however, when Moran comes after him instead...


**_It's said if you don't let it out  
you're gonna let it eat you away_**

The rain began to fall long before a certain Doctor John Watson exited his therapist's office, soaking the people who were unfortunate enough to get caught in the miserable weather. Groups of people huddled together as they walked, darting from awning to awning to find respite from the icy drops. Only one person seemed content to brave the chill, the hood of his sweatshirt protecting his face and freshly dyed hair. While he appeared engrossed in the damp paperback book he clutched in one hand, his pale eyes kept darting towards the nondescript building across the street from him. A tinny chime drew his attention away from both the book and the building, and he pulled out a sleek black mobile, huffing a sigh at the name on the display screen. As if it would be anyone else but Mycroft Holmes.

_Moran is back in England. He has become suspicious by the deaths of Oliver Witte and Ormond Martinez. Use caution, Sherlock. He may be coming after John. –Mycroft_

Sherlock glared at his phone as if it personally offended him. He deleted the message without replying, pocketing it quickly. The idea of Moran coming after John was alarming, especially after all this time. He had thought three years would be ample time for Moran to give up any idea of completing his mission for Moriarty, but it seemed he was a solider until the very end. With two of the three gunmen out of the way, however, he would be able to distract the sniper, luring him away from his friend.

A sudden shift of light drew Sherlock's attention to the therapist's building once more, watching as a short, blond man ambled down the stairs to the sidewalk below. Sherlock was pleased to note that John's psychosomatic limp had not returned, though there appeared to be a stiffness in the leg that had not been present when Sherlock had lived with him. The tremor in his left hand, however, was back in full force. He watched John walk away, unaware of his surroundings. That didn't mean that Sherlock didn't take precautions, ducking his head so the awful bleach-blond hair fell into his eyes, hiding his face once more behind the book. The precautions were unnecessary, for John kept walking, not even glancing at the strange man reading out in the rain.

Sherlock waited for John to turn the corner before getting up to follow him. Though he hadn't noticed him yet, following too close would end in disaster. John easily became suspicious if he believed someone to be stalking him, going at great lengths to shake anyone who tried. Trailing John was easier than he had expected, Sherlock noted with interest. It seemed that the ex-army doctor had dulled his senses, and he wondered how close he could get before John began to pay attention. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely noticed the direction they were headed; John was halfway through the graveyard before he noticed the first headstone.

He had seen John here once before, three years ago.

The scene was similar. John stood before the black marble, his shoulders slightly hunched as he gazed at it. The last time Sherlock was here, he could barely make out the words John spoke. He inched closer, hiding behind slabs of marble, staying out of John's sight. He thanked every deity he didn't believe in that the wind was in his favour, carrying John's words straight to him.

"I miss you." John said at last, his voice so achingly familiar, and so very missed. "Christ, I miss you every bloody day. You've been gone for three years, and it never seems to get any easier."

Sherlock wanted to answer, to call out to his friend, but John's life is in more danger than it was before. Moran will begin to watch John, and the blond has never been the best of actors.

"My therapist…she thinks that I need to tell you something. Something I was never able to tell you." John continues, his hand brushing the polished slab tentatively. "I never got to tell you how much you meant to me. You were my best friend, and I…" John sucked in a small breath, preparing himself to continue, but the words never come. "I can't. I just, I can't. She thinks that saying…saying what I need to say is easy. But it isn't. It never will be easy, because I know I won't ever be able to say it to you…"

John rocks on his heels a few times before turning away from the headstone, marching away from it quickly. Sherlock watches him go, unable to follow him this time. It is surprising not only how much it hurts him, but how much John is still hurt by his death.

Sherlock's phone chimes again, though he doesn't move immediately to answer it, waiting for his friend to vanish before digging into his pocket.

_Doctor Watson will be fine. One more gunman, and you can return to him, if you choose. –Mycroft_

The Consulting Detective sighed before replacing the mobile to its rightful spot. The desire to return to John was stronger than anticipated, but he wasn't entirely sure if it was the best thing for the blond. If Sherlock stayed dead, then John could never be hurt by him again. He wouldn't be kidnapped, drugged, or any of the other horrid things people have done to him because of his friendship with the detective.

With that last sad and painful thought, Sherlock turned on his heel, leaving the cemetery in the opposite direction that John did. He would find Colonel Moran quickly and make him suffer the same fate as Witte and Martinez.

**_I'd rather be a cannibal, baby  
Animals like me don't talk anyway_**

Oliver Witte had been Sherlock's first victim. Though he was the gunman that had been assigned to Greg Lestrade, he had far less experience than the other two. Perhaps Moriarty thought that none of his assassins would have made it out of Scotland Yard alive after shooting a Detective Inspector, so he sent out one he could afford to lose. Because the death of Lestrade didn't happen, he had left the Met with nothing more than a paper cut he had received while printing off false paperwork. Oliver Witte didn't even bother to hide, so sure that no one would ever know what he had been hired to do.

He hadn't considered the fact that Sherlock could still be alive. Not that anyone had, of course, but someone that chooses to dabble in the field of crime should always double check for a pulse before relaxing.

One week after his funeral Sherlock made his move. Witte was still employed in the Scotland Yard, so he was gone during the day, allowing the Consulting Detective to let himself in, making himself comfortable in the cramped lounge of the flat that Witte called home. He had just finished making tea when Witte arrived home from work.

"Oliver Witte. Thirty two. Borderline alcoholic. Lived with his mother until the age of twenty-nine." Sherlock announced as the plain-looking blond entered the flat. He jumped, his hand darting back to grip his gun. "Ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Witte froze, his grip on the gun falling slack as he sank into an armchair to look up at Sherlock. "How are you alive?" He asked, his jaw hanging open.

"Close your mouth. You're giving off the impression that you're a bigger idiot than you actually are." Sherlock's words were sharp, and Witte's jaw snapped with the force of him closing it. "How I am alive doesn't matter, it is unimportant. What is important is your orders."

"If you're alive, then Detective Inspector Lestrade needs to die." Witte said, his eyes flashing. "You've clearly made your choice…I'll just ring up Martinez and Moran and let them know."

"That isn't going to happen." Sherlock said, a cold smile spreading across his face as he lifted his mug of tea to his mouth. Without touching the porcelain to his lips, he took a long sip, then lowered the steaming cup as he watched the assassin with interest. "You see, I have no intention of letting my friends die."

"Either they die, or I do." Witte said smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock chuckled, walking closer to the blond.

"You are left-handed." Sherlock stated, setting the mug of tea on the coffee table in front of Witte. He turned it ever so slightly, the handle of the mug curving out to the assassin's left.

"Yeah, why does that matter?" Witte asked with a roll of his eyes.

Sherlock glanced up at Witte before moving towards him. Realisation flashed in the blond's eyes, but he was barely able to pull the gun before Sherlock was behind him, his left hand covering Witte's as his right arm looped around the other man's neck.

"Not a smart move, Mr Witte." Sherlock mused, his pointer finger tapping teasingly at assassin's finger that was poised carefully on the trigger. Slowly, Sherlock tugged on Witte's arm, forcing the barrel of the gun towards the other man's temple. "You see, I don't like my friends being threatened, and I don't like being threatened myself. You have done both of these within the span of a few minutes. Goodbye, Oliver Witte. I shall send Lestrade your regards."

The resulting gunshot resonated throughout the room, and Sherlock's ears continued to ring long after Oliver Witte went limp. A quick check of the lounge proved that he had not left any evidence behind. The black leather gloves that covered his hands prevented any fingerprints from getting on the mug of tea or Oliver Witte himself. With one last cursory glance, Sherlock left the flat through the front door, locking it deftly behind him.

The death of Oliver Witte was ruled a suicide immediately. After all, they reasoned, the doors were locked, and the gun was still loosely held in Witte's hand, what else could it be? His death revealed that he had criminal tie in's, and a resulting sweep through Scotland Yard lead to the sacking of three other people.

* * *

Ormond Martinez was much harder to find. As soon as the news of Oliver Witte's death broke out, he disappeared. It took two and a half years to locate his whereabouts, something that Mycroft was still annoyed over. They discovered him hiding in the United States, a tiny rural town in the state of Minnesota named Battle Lake. Though the town had an airport, Mycroft expressly forbad Sherlock from flying his jet there. Sherlock discovered later that the airport was nothing more than a flattened field with a little tin shack next to it, but until then he had pouted and complained about the three-hour drive from the Minneapolis airport to the small town.

Once he got there, the man wasn't difficult to find. Martinez lived in a small one-story house just down the street from the primary school. The locks were impossibly easy to pick, and Sherlock let himself in, relaxing on the worn-out sofa.

Sherlock waited at the house for an hour before growing bored. With a dramatic sigh, he left the house, pulling out a cigarette as he went. He smoked lazily as he made his way down to the lake that bordered the town, passing a twenty-three foot tall fiberglass statue of a Native American called Chief Wenonga. Sherlock sneered at the statue before turning back to watch the lake. That's when he saw Martinez, sitting out on a dock meant for the public's use. Flicking his cigarette into a garbage, he made his way towards the man.

"You've come to kill me, haven't you?" Martinez spoke aloud, not even bothering to turn and look at Sherlock.

Sherlock began to stroll down the dock, the metal clanging dully with each step. "What makes you assume that?"

Martinez laughed hollowly, the empty sound echoing across the water. "When you're involved with someone like Moriarty, you never get out alive."

He waited until Sherlock was level with him before finally turning to look at the other man. Sherlock watched in amusement as Martinez squinted at him, trying to place his familiar face with the coppery red shock of hair.

"Impossible…" the gunman breathed. "You're…how can you be alive? Moran watched you fall!"

"Improbable, yes. Not impossible." Sherlock commented, gazing out at the smooth-as-glass lake. "You know why I'm here, of course."

Martinez barked out a laugh, this one sounding more genuine than his last. "You're here to kill me. Why? Because I threatened your landlady and planted a camera in your flat?"

"Her name is Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said, turning to look at the bald assassin. "She made you tea and gave you biscuits. Far more than you deserve. As for the camera, a minor nuisance. Easily taken care of."

Martinez sighed as he ran a hand over his smooth head, standing so he could face Sherlock.

"If I'm going to die, it might as well be at the hands of a man who has cheated death." His voice betrayed no emotion. "And not from some foolish henchman that has never seen war before."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious as to why Martinez was being so compliant. Before the man could do anything, however, he delivered a swift uppercut to the man's jaw, knocking him out.

Watching Martinez crumple with a loud bang onto the dock, Sherlock began his preparations, grabbing a few boulders from the shoreline before searching the boats tied up at the dock. One of the boats, a pontoon, had its keys in the cup holder next to the steering wheel. Starting up the motor, Sherlock dragged Martinez on board and began sailing towards the middle of the lake.

When the depth was satisfactory, the Consulting Detective stopped the boat. He tied Ormond Martinez up with fishing line, attached him to the boulders, and pushed him overboard, splashing himself a bit in the process. Sherlock watched dispassionately as the man sank quickly from view, and he watched the surface of the lake for over an hour before returning the boat, pleased that he wasn't gone long enough for it to be missed. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, sending a quick text to his brother before walking back uptown to pick up the car.

_Ormond Martinez has been eliminated. Find Moran immediately. SH_

It didn't take long before Sherlock was in the car; Battle Lake, Minnesota fading quickly into the distance in his rear view mirror. Only a three hour car ride, then a nine hour flight until he was home. Well, not entirely home. It wouldn't be home until he could be with John again.

**_Feel like an ambulance  
Chaser of faith  
Pray I could replace her  
Forget the way her tears taste  
Oh, the way her tears taste_**

It had been over half a year since the death of Ormond Martinez, and the search for Sebastian Moran was still largely unsuccessful. Even though it had taken a few years to find Martinez, there had been tiny clues as to where he had gone. Bits a pieces of information that proved he was a real person. Moran had simply vanished off the map, and Mycroft hadn't been able to find anything more than a birth certificate and a military service record.

When Mycroft had gotten word of Moran's return to England, Sherlock had been excited, but the man disappeared as easily has he had before. Now it seemed as if Moran was messing with the Holmes family; his location would be discovered, and just as Sherlock set out to capture him, he would vanish again. It had happened so many times that Sherlock had given up going after the foolish leads, settling himself back down in London.

It was on a particularly sunny Thursday afternoon that Sherlock received an email with an attached link. Sherlock frowned at his computer, running a hand through the blond-going-dark-at-the-roots hair on his head. With a few taps, he opened up the email and the link, going cold at what he saw.

On the screen was a live video feed of John. The doctor must have moved to a bedsit after Sherlock's "death", because the background was completely unfamiliar to him. John himself didn't seem troubled as he sat in the rickety old chair, sipping at a mug of tea, but then again, John didn't know about the camera in his bedsit either. Sherlock tore his eyes away from the video feed to read the caption underneath.

_Come after me with a gun, and I'll go after him. But I'll get to him first. _

Sherlock sucked in a breath, clicking out of the link quickly. It was difficult to watch, difficult to think about just how close Moriarty's right hand man had gotten to John. Moran had managed not only to find John's bedsit, but get their without Mycroft or himself knowing. He had hoped that Moran would have been slower on the uptake, not realising that he was alive until much too late. That was no longer a possibility, but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if Moran would continue to follow Moriarty's last orders, or if he would stay away if given the proper incentives. Sherlock cracked his knuckles before pulling up a new email. He typed quickly, sending it off with a harder click of the mouse than necessary.

_Stay away from John. SH_

Sherlock watched his inbox, a smirk that didn't reach his eyes forming as soon as he received another message. He clicked on it, reading the message several times before replying.

_I will. But I think you and I need to have a chat. I'll let you know the time and place, but until then, don't come after me._

Sherlock smiled grimly once again, wondering how long he would have to wait before the impending meeting. Tapping at the table top with his fingertips, he shut down his computer, moving quickly away from the electronic device. Though Moran had promised to stay away from John, he didn't trust the promises of a criminal. Lacking the ability to go after the ex-colonel, there was only one other thing Sherlock could do. Watch over John.

**_Put another X on the calendar_**  
**_summer's on its deathbed_**  
**_there is simply nothing worse_**  
**_than knowing how it ends_**

John was surviving. It was better than nothing, but Sherlock hoped that John would be _flourishing_ without him. He had hoped that when he came back from the dead, John would be happy and healthy, perhaps with a nice girl to keep him company. Not that he wanted the good doctor to be dating dull women, but it had seemed to make him moderately happy before, even though all of the women he chose weren't good enough for him.

Then again, if John had been so happy with Sherlock gone, could he really have come back? I would only bring up bad memories; of kidnap and almost-deaths. Could he really subject John to such torture?

Coming back to John like this, however, was just as bad. John was moving on, as he should. He was creating a normal life, a safe one. Well, as safe as one can be when they have a killer on their heels. John wouldn't forgive him when he returned.

If he returned.

And that was it, the final problem. The _true_ final problem: whether or not to return home, to John. Would it be kinder to allow John to move on from the apparent death, to never know that Sherlock Holmes was still alive and well? Perhaps it was the nicest thing to do. John would never have to relive this if Sherlock returned then died on him all over. John wouldn't have the reminder of watching Sherlock plummet to the pavement so fresh in his mind.

But maybe Sherlock was just being selfish. After all, a world where Sherlock was dead and John didn't hate him seemed preferable to one where he was alive and despised.

**_And I meant everything I said that night  
I will come back to life_**

**_But only for you  
only for you_**

Feelings were not a complete mystery to Sherlock Holmes. Loath though he was to admit it, he was a human, and therefore had momentary lapses in strength during which emotions took hold. If Sherlock didn't have a rudimentary knowledge of feelings, then most of his cases would have gone unsolved.

Anger was a common one, and Sherlock was very versed on anger. It was the father of hatred and bitterness, a slow moving poison that encompassed your very soul. It was born out of other people's wrongs and petty jealousy. A common factor in many crimes, but not the only one.

Fear was another one, though Sherlock tried to avoid this one if possible. While you could use anger constructively, fear was a total paralytic. People feared so much, and they hid from it instead of fighting it.

Sadness was an interesting one to Sherlock. It was one that he could never fully get away from in his childhood. Even throughout his Uni days, and his twenties, there lingered a hint of sadness. It wasn't constructive at all, but it still clung to people like an awful residue. It infiltrated everything you did, fed on your accomplishments and failures like some horrid parasite.

That is, until John came. When John showed up in Sherlock Holmes' life, the negative emotions melted away. Sure, they could still come back, after all, that's what emotions do. But the unforgiving sadness of his youth dissipated, leaving behind emotions he knew existed, but hadn't experienced before. Joy, Anticipation, Love…

And that is what everything boiled down to, wasn't it? He had fallen in love with John Watson. It started out with respect for the short man. He was an army doctor, a trained killer and healer, but when he looked at you with that boyish grin on his face, it was hard to see anything but the kind man wearing the funny jumpers. That was how Sherlock had come to respect John. He grew to like him when he shot Jefferson Hope to save his live. But love, that crept in quietly, slowly.

The first time Sherlock had realised that his emotions were getting the better of him was during the incident at the pool. Fear had crept up on him when he saw John walk through those doors, but this fear was unlike anything he had ever been forced to feel. He was terrified not for himself, but for John. Those few brief seconds that he believed John to be a traitor, he feared that Mycroft would catch him and hurt him. When he discovered that he was strapped to a bomb, he was worried that John would blow up, killing the man. Sherlock couldn't care less if he had died, but the thought of John dying was enough to cripple him.

He had ignored John three days after the incident to think. He had mulled over the idea of fearing for someone else, what it meant, why it occurred. When he couldn't figure it out, however, he gave it up as a bad job. Perhaps it was the adrenaline that made him feel as though his heart would leap out of his chest.

But the strange emotions didn't go away. Jealousy threatened to reign whenever John went on dates, and he was unable to do more than sulk on the sofa while the blond was out. Anger loomed when people threatened to hurt John. Sadness swept in when the doctor was angry at him. No matter what he did, he was unable to control the strange tides of sentiment where John was concerned. Then it happened.

It was nothing dramatic like something you would see in those ridiculous romantic comedies that they keep making. It was a normal morning, John had just made tea, and when he handed the mug over, something sparked inside Sherlock. _Oh._ It was love.

And that was why Sherlock decided that he wouldn't return to John. How could he be so selfish? John would only hurt more. And if he discovered how Sherlock felt about him…well, it wouldn't end well. John would be safer this way, happier.

**_The world may call it a second chance  
But when I came back it was more of a relapse_**

Not letting John know that he was alive didn't mean Sherlock couldn't follow the other man around, however. Moran was still alive, and therefore a threat, and John never made proper precautions even when he knew his life was in danger. Changing his gait, and using a cap to cover his blond hair that was growing out at the roots, Sherlock trailed after John, constantly watching for possible attacks, for hiding snipers and trained assassins. Sometimes, all he did was watch John.

He had debated using the live video feed to watch the man while he was in his bedsit, but quickly realised that John would have considered that much more than a bit not good. Enlisting the help of his brother, the camera was removed with John none the wiser. With the camera gone, Sherlock took to camping out near John's bedsit, watching and waiting for the threat that loomed over John's life.

Sherlock's efforts, though valiant, were completely unnecessary. Moran kept his word and stayed away from John, so Sherlock backed away as well. Not completely, just enough so that John wasn't constantly being followed. Though unobservant, John would catch on eventually, and it was best to back away now before he did. The absence was beginning to take a toll on Sherlock, however. That's when he decided to call John.

**_Anticipation's on the other line  
and obsession called while you were out  
Yeah, it called while you were out_**

For the first week it was Sherlock calling to listen to John's voicemail. He reasoned that, if he was careful, he could hear his friend's voice without arousing suspicion. Waiting until John was at work, or busy with a task, Sherlock would quickly call on one of his disposable phones, listening to the familiar tones, the rise and fall of John's voice.

_"Hi. Yes, hello. This is John Watson's mobile. I clearly can't come to the phone right now because- bloody hell, Sherlock, would you keep it down? I'm trying to- yes, right sorry. My mad flatmate is up his usual antics, and I'm not quite sure how to re-record th-No! Not the toaster!"_

_*click*_

It both thrilled and saddened Sherlock that John had never changed his voicemail. While the doctor wasn't always technologically competent, he could have changed the message if he were desperate enough. By the week's end, Sherlock had listened to the message so frequently that it was permanently etched into his mind palace.

All too soon the excitement of calling John's number wasn't enough. Instead of waiting for John to be at work, Sherlock always made sure John was available. He never spoke to the blond. John needed to think Sherlock was still dead. But hearing his voice, his actual voice, was better than anything he could imagine.

The first time he took such a risk was out in the middle of London. A week after he had begun calling John had found the duo in the middle of London. Sherlock walked behind him, when out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a red telephone booth. Moving quickly, Sherlock slipped inside the booth, dialling John's number with ease. Peeking over his shoulder, he watched the ex-army doctor stop and pull out his mobile, his shoulders hunched with confusion.

"Yes, hello?" John's voice spoke into his ear, and Sherlock couldn't help the tiny grin on his face. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Hanging up the telephone booth phone, Sherlock slipped back out of the box, walking past John, who didn't glance at him twice as he pocketed his mobile with a bewildered expression.

Five more times Sherlock called John, until he received two calls that ended it. The first, from Mycroft, telling him in no uncertain detail what he was doing was foolishness. The other was a rough gravelly voice that he had never heard before, but deducing the owner wasn't too much of a stretch. He said only two words before hanging up on Sherlock.

"It's time."

**_Put another X on the calendar  
summer's on its deathbed  
there is simply nothing worse  
than knowing how it ends_**

Moran's words rang through his head for hours, and Sherlock could think of little else. Moran was now wanting to be found, to be hunted, to be captured. But not captured, not really. Moran wanted revenge for the death of Moriarty, and he did not intend to go down without a fight, this much was certain. Moran had set the stage, designed the props, and directed the movement. Sherlock was nothing but a pawn in his little play, and no matter how many times he tried to think of ways out, there was only one solution.

He was going to die.

Not that Moran would get away free. Sherlock would do everything in his power to bring the gunman down with him, and if that was unsuccessful, Mycroft and his men would be there to talk care of him.

Snatching up his mobile from the pile of papers he placed it on after the phone call with Moran, Sherlock quickly dialled his brother, sighing dramatically with each ring. After three of them, Mycroft answered, sound rather put out.

"I'm in the middle of a meeting, Sherlock. Could it not wait?"

"I'm going to die." Sherlock said swiftly, his voice flat.

"Is this your idea of some kind of joke?" Mycroft asked, his voice getting even more annoyed. "Because it isn't very funny."

"Hardly joking, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped back. "I just received a telephone call from Sebastian Moran. Apparently he's ready for me."

"And you plan to just play along with his little game, do you?" Mycroft would have sounded haughty to anyone else listening, but Sherlock knew his brother well enough by now to detect a hint of worry.

"I don't believe I have any other choice." Sherlock responded. "Moran would know if I came with anyone else, and I can't very well not show up. He will kill John otherwise."

"Ah, the good doctor." Mycroft sighed. "He is very important to you."

"Yes, he is." Sherlock stated. "And to let him come to harm would be ridiculous. Not after I worked so hard. I will meet Moran, but I doubt I will come out of this alive."

"Sherlock-"

"No. He knows what he's doing. Hopefully I will be able to take him out. At worst I should be able to injure him."

Mycroft didn't say anything for about a minute. "I will have my men waiting outside the facility that Moran calls you to."

"Excellent." Sherlock said, "I do hope you've been working hard to clear my name. I think John deserves to know that he wasn't incorrect in his belief of my character."

"We are almost done. Just a few more documents and your innocence will be sent to media stations all around the world." Mycroft sighed. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye." Sherlock said, hanging up his mobile before he could say anything else.

_I love you, brother. I shall miss you._

**_And I meant everything I said that night  
I will come back to life  
But only for you  
Only for you_**

Moran's hideout wasn't difficult to find, though perhaps this was because the gunman was no longer hiding. A few hours and Sherlock had figured out that Moran was currently staying in the Battersea Power Station, hardly creative for someone Moriarty thought of so highly. Sherlock walked the four miles to the station, taking his time to get there. He was in no rush to die, but it did seem a fitting end to the whole ordeal. He was more pleased than ever that John didn't know about his faked suicide. It would have been cruel to inform him that Sherlock was alive, only to take it away once more.

The sun was beginning to set when he arrived at Battersea Power Station, and the area around it was unsurprisingly empty. He made his way to the centre of the building, the dying sunlight shining weakly through the roofless building.

"Ah, good. You're already here." The gravelly voice stated from behind him. Sherlock turned to watch a tall blond man appear from the shadows. He had a face that you would never forget. A long, jagged scar ran from the top of his forehead to his jawline, just missing his left eye. Other scars marred his features, taking what was once a handsome face and turning it twisted.

"Of course I am." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You really though I would put something like this off?"

"I expected you to plot something." Moran said good-naturally. "You only found out about my location this afternoon. Not enough time to plan anything."

"What's to plan?" Sherlock asked. "The only plan I need is killing you."

"With what? You didn't even bring a gun." Moran smirked. "I suppose you want to die today as well."

"I don't see any way around it." Sherlock shrugged. "My death is inevitable in this situation."

"Correct." Moran agreed. "I have a sniper trained on you, prepared to shoot if you manage to kill me."

"Boring." Sherlock sighed. "And so predictable. Really, I assumed you would have a far more interesting plot in mind."

"This place has too many visitors to rig it with explosives." Moran's voice was filled with regret. "I wouldn't have been able to do a proper job."

A dull thud much like the sound of a settling house filled the space, and Moran grimaced, looking around in the shadows. The sun was too low to fill the centre of the building with light, and it was starting to get hard to see the man before him.

"This place gets pretty creepy at night. Too many strange noises." Moran stated. "I had hoped you would wait for tomorrow. More time to enjoy your death." He raised the Browning, aiming it at Sherlock's heart.

"You're going to do it now, then?" Sherlock worked hard to make himself sound bored. He may have known that his death was unavoidable, but that didn't mean he liked it. It must have worked, however, because annoyance flickered across Moran's scarred face before it settled back into its placid mask.

"Yes. It's been fun, Sherlock Holmes. But I'm really pissed that you killed my boss. An eye for an eye, they say."

Sherlock sucked in a breath, watching as Moran's finger began to tighten on the trigger. He wouldn't have enough time to get to the gunman, to injure him back. His eyes fluttered closed as he waited for the end, for the pain, for the darkness.

_Goodbye, John._

Louder than Sherlock could have ever thought possible, the crack of a gun rang around the space, filling his senses, scattering his thoughts.

_**Asleep in the hive**_  
_**I guess all the buzzing got to me**_  
_**Well, I'm still alive**_  
_**At night your body is a symphony**_  
_**And I'm conducting**_

The lack of pain was a nice surprise, and Sherlock wondered for all of five seconds if Moran had killed him instantly. The idea of that was absurd, however. Moran wanted to cause him pain, to hurt him as he had hurt when he lost Moriarty. A gurgling gasp caught his attention, and Sherlock was shocked to find the gunman lying on the ground, dying slowly of a gunshot wound to the chest.

"How-"

"You _bastard."_ A voice behind him interrupted.

That voice.

_His voice._

Sherlock turned to look at John Watson, his face flushed from running, his hair a mess, and his jumper bloodied. Several emotions flickered across the blonds face in rapid succession. _Happy, sad, angry, relieved, terrified, disbelieving, wonder._ It finally settled on livid.

Any expression on John's face was a welcome one at this point. Sherlock took a step towards the man, not stopping to think how terrible of an idea that would be at this point. John was here, John had saved him, and John was looking at him. John.

**_It's said if you don't let it out_**  
**_You're gonna let it eat you away_**

_A lot of times when we fall in love with somebody, it turns out to be somebody who hurts us, and when people fall in love with us, we tend to hurt them_.

_**Put another X on the calendar**_  
_**Summer's on its deathbed**_  
_**There is simply nothing worse**_  
_**Than knowing how it ends**_

Sherlock expected the blow that came next, though he was ill prepared for it. One moment he was staggering towards John, the next he was falling backwards, blood gushing from his nose.

"I thought…you were _dead._ I _buried _you." John said, staring down at Sherlock.

"John-"

"No." John interrupted, holding up a hand. "No. It's my turn to speak. You _left_ me. For three bloody years. Do you know how much I missed you, how much it hurt?"

"John, I-"

"Shut up!" John growled, glaring at Sherlock who was still sprawled across the dirty ground. Sherlock could see stars beginning to appear in the night sky behind John's head, framing him quite nicely. "It nearly killed me, watching you fall to your death? And for what? Testing to see how I would react, hm? Bored with everyday life? Why the hell would you do this?"

"To save you!" Sherlock managed to get out, halting John's ranting in its tracks.

"To save me?" John frowned, clearly confused. "What the hell does-"

"Moriarty threatened your life, and the lives of Lestrade and Mrs Hudson." Sherlock stood, brushing off his black trousers as he went. "If they didn't see me jump, then you three would have been shot. Even in the event of his death, your lives were at stake."

"We were-"

"Targets, yes." Sherlock interrupted John this time. "I had to eliminate the gunmen, ensure your safety."

"And then come home?" John asked softly. Sherlock studied his black leather gloves, trying to find an answer that both told the truth, but made it sound friendlier."

"While my original plan was to return home, after further consideration-"

"You weren't going to return home, were you?" John cut in, his voice deathly quiet.

"You were-"

"No, stop it." John hissed, not allowing Sherlock to talk. "You were going to let me continue thinking you were dead?"

"John…you could have a normal life." Sherlock's voice went equally as soft.

"I don't _want_ a normal life." John argued. "I want my life at 221B Baker Street, with you."

"You're…not angry at me?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm still bloody furious, but I missed you. Christ, I missed you." John sighed tiredly.

"I had assumed you would be mad and hate me." Sherlock mused. "Why don't you hate me? I put you through so much grief."

"Well, it's-"

"Not returning to you was both a selfish and selfless choice…"

"Yes, well-"

"I figured a world with you not knowing of me was a world better than you hating me…"

"Sherlock, I-"

"And I couldn't have you hate me, John. But you should. You would be much better off hating me…"

"Would you stop interr-"

"If you choose to never see me again, really, it would probably be for the-"

"I LOVE YOU!" John burst out after many failed attempts to get Sherlock's attention. Sherlock froze, staring and John. The words felt like electricity in his body, causing all his muscles, his organs, his bones to work too slow and too fast all at once. John's face flushed a magnificent shade of pink, and he averted those stormy blue eyes, looking up at the ceiling-less roof of the Power Station.

"John…"

"It's true. I love you, you total prat. I could _never _go anywhere else, live without you. I _need _you in my life."

Sherlock offered John a small smile, but the blond still refused to look at him. John was clearly mortified, though he really didn't understand why. It's not as if the feelings were unrequited.

_Oh!_

John didn't know that.

Sherlock walked toward John slowly, causing the shorter man to look up at him with a mix of panic, hope, and fear.

**_And I meant everything I said that night  
I will come back to life  
But only for you  
Only for you_**

"You believe your feelings are unrequited." Sherlock stated, watching John's Adams Apple bob as he swallowed nervously. "Why do you think Moriarty assigned his best assassin to you?"

John shook his head, clearly confused by the line of questioning. "Because…because I was in the army?"

"You were unaware that you were in the crosshairs of a gun; your military training was a moot point." Sherlock explained. "Moriarty sent his best assassin after you because you are the most important thing to me. If I somehow survived after his death, Moran would stop at nothing to destroy you. Do you see now?"

"I…I think so." John said softly, the muscles that had tensed up during his confession loosening.

"I love you, John Hamish Watson." Sherlock stated crisply, as though informing John of one of his more interesting experiments as opposed to declaring his love. "And that shall never change."

For the second time that night, Sherlock lost control of the momentum of his body by the hands of one John Watson. Instead of backwards, however, this time he was tugged forward, the electricity flowing through his body growing more powerful when his lips met John's. The chaste kiss didn't last long; it didn't need to. Every emotion, every longing and desire was conveyed through that kiss.

They broke apart after a few seconds, cerulean eyes meeting blue-silver-green. Sherlock's eyes flickered down to John's bloodied jumper before returning to their proper position.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Moran's back up sniper got off to?" Sherlock asked. John's eyes twinkled innocently.

"He was aiming straight at you. Now he knows not to play with guns." John said, his hand fiddling with the front of Sherlock's shirt.

"And you…how did you know where I would be?" Sherlock asked, his brain finally catching up with him."

"Mycroft." John shrugged. "He called me in a right state. Said that I needed to get my arse down to Battersea to protect a friend. Almost hung up on him. I don't have friends."

"No?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow raising.

"Nope." John grinned, tugging Sherlock closer. "I just got one."

They kissed again, this time more urgent. The two men clung to each other, hands skimming over the other's body as if trying to make sure they were real.

Tomorrow they would move back to Baker Street, scaring the wits out of an unsuspecting Mrs Hudson. Tomorrow they would visit the met, Sherlock earning another punch from Lestrade, much to Anderson and Donovan's delight. In a week, Sherlock's name would be cleared, and he would once again take cases as a Consulting Detective.

John and Sherlock would still bicker like children, fighting over toes in the freezer and mind-numbing telly, but they always made up after every fight, their anger forgotten in sweet kisses. For now, however, Sherlock and John clung to each other in the hallowed out centre of Battersea Power Station, kissing as though their lives depended on it. They were still the same men they had been a few hours previously.

Except they were no longer surviving.

No.

They were _thriving._

**_Only for you_**

_-end-_

* * *

**A/N: **

Ugh, I know that everyone and their mother has done a Great Hiatus/Post Reichenbach fic. (Even _I've_ technically done one, but it is crack-a-licious) It just worked so _well_ with this song, and I figured I best get it out of my system before the new series comes out! Yay! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, (or at the very least, didn't hate it.) I love you mucho amounts, you're all really swell people, you know that?

Bubble-gum and cookie crumbs,

Robottko

**Notes:**

-The title is a line from Shakespeare's 57th sonnet, one of the many that leads scholars to believe that Shakespeare was bisexual. This line in particular is saying that the poet isn't allowed to think badly on his master's absence when he already bid him goodbye.

-Ormond Martinez: I chose his name for a specific reason. His last name is Spanish, meaning "son of Martin", a derivative of "son of Mars", the Roman god of war. I liked one of the gunmen having a sinister name.

His Spanish surname is a nod to "The Reichenbach Fall", where we catch a brief look at the wifi surrounding 221B. The ethnicities are all accounted for except for red-de-cielo, a Spanish wifi name. (His first name, Ormond, is Gaelic for red, and was the first name Sir Arthur Conan Doyle considered for our wonderful John.)

-Battle Lake, MN: According to the 2012 census, the town of Battle Lake has a booming population of 875. It is, however, a tourist town, and people frequently move to and from town, so someone such as Ormond Martinez moving to town wouldn't cause too much of a stir, especially in the summer months where the town becomes packed with people from the Twin Cities area who come up to enjoy the lakes area. (Also, I just really like this town, okay?)

-Chief Wenonga: This fiberglass statue is based off an actual man who fought in the 1790 battle near the lake. Only one out of a handful of Ojibwe to have survived, they relocated to the other side of what is now known as West Battle Lake, starting the town of Battle Lake.

-Battersea Power Station: A decommissioned power station. It was built in the 1930's and closed completely in 1983. The condition of the building is said to be "very bad", even though the interior had been quite good at the time of development.

-A lot of times…we tend to hurt them: From "Opposites Attract" by Kendrick Lamar.

-The song used in this fic is "The Calender" by Panic! at the Disco.


End file.
